


Lights and Sirens

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [6]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: EMT!Ian, M/M, Mickey is a gay icon, alternate first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23531068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: "Hey! Bloody guy! Wait a sec!"The guy stops and turns around in a daze, looking to and fro before his eyes finally settle on Ian."Hey, man," Ian breathes when he catches up to him. "Why don't you let me take a look at that?" He asks and gestures vaguely to his own face.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 17
Kudos: 346





	Lights and Sirens

It's a slow night. Of course, Ian won't say as much, because proclaiming it down right quiet would cause the cosmos to rain down upon him, showering him in run after run. So, he keeps his mouth shut. Doesn't mention the easy night. Doesn't bring it up that he'd gotten to sit down and eat a full meal. Was able to take a nap. No, he won't say shit. 

Unfortunately, his partner does. 

"Man, I'm starting to get bored," Jackson says, in all of his baby EMT glory. 

He's fucking stupid, is what he is. Fresh out of training and eager to see blood, and Ian was the poor fucking bastard assigned to be his preceptor. 

"First rule of EMS, dumbass, is never, never fucking say that," Ian tells him with a pointed look. 

"Why? There's not shit going on," he says petulantly, like a little kid stomping his foot to get his way. 

Ian's just about to lay into him, really fucking give him a verbal what-for, when it happens, much to Ian's displeasure; the tones drop. They go off loud and clear, followed by the overhead voice of the godlike 911 operator, ordering Ian's rig to head out to an address that Ian recognizes as the Alibi for multiple injuries related to a fight. Fantastic. A bar fight, just when Ian was really relaxed. Dealing with a bunch of fucking drunks is not the way he wanted to spend his night. 

"Yes!" Jackson shouts with a grin that Ian's damn near ready to rip from his skull. 

"Shut up and get in the rig, idiot," he settles on instead of physical violence, because he's an adult, thank you. "And you're driving." 

He regrets telling him to drive. He regrets it when he head nearly hits the window when he takes a turn too fast. He regrets it when he speeds around cars left and right. He regrets it when Jackson flies through a red light. 

"Hey, jackass! Your woo-woos don't give you the fucking right to fly through red lights! Jesus, you trying to get us killed?" Ian yells.

"Just trying to get us there!" Jackson tells him with that same ole shit eating grin. 

"How about you get us there in one fucking piece? The sirens only allow you to go so fast. It's not an open invitation to put the fucking petal down!" 

There's yelling when they pull up, clear and loud even through the rolled up window that blocks out the crisp night air. There's also a handful of police blocking off the street, a couple of rowdy guys pinned down and cuffed. 

Ian can see the blood before all else. It's coating faces and seeping onto the hood of the car that the man is bent over, a cop pinning him down into the snow that's settled there. Doesn't mean the guy is subdued from his injuries. If anything, he looks like he's still rip roaring to go, and Ian has to take a deep breath before he calls himself on scene and leaves the rig. 

The first thing he hears when he steps out into the night is a myriad of homophobic slurs, and Jesus Christ can he not catch a break with this call? 

"You get the fuck outta my house, you pole smoking queer!" A man bellows, despite his blooming nosebleed and reddened teeth. 

"Get the fucking bag," Ian snaps at his partner when he stops to stare at the commotion. 

"Fuck you, don't worry about it!" The first man that Ian saw yells back. "I've found lots of guys to stay with since you've been in the can, bitch! Guess what we've been doin', daddy? We've been fuckin'!" He screams, and slams his hips suggestively into the side of the car that he's held against. 

It's a disaster. And Ian can't look away. 

"And I take it!" The bloodied guy continues. "They give it to me good and hard and I fuckin' like it!" 

Jackson saddles up next to Ian and shifts the jump bag around in his hands nervously, eyes darting back and forth between the argument. 

"What do we do?" He asks, semi scared. 

"Shut up!" Ian snarks and keeps listening to the commotion. 

The other man, the homophobic prick, continues on screaming as he starts to be pulled to an open patrol car, thrashing wildly like a fucking animal. 

"I suck their dicks and I fuckin' love it!" 

Ian's mouth goes a little dry. Not because he's like, into this whole thing, or the guy, just more so that the raw energy coming off of him is something else. The balls to scream that- in this area?- is amazing. It's beautiful, really. Ian is impressed. 

There's a little last ditch effort to kick at the old guy before he's tossed bodily into the back of the cruiser, and finally, there's quiet. Mostly. Just the sound of loud breathing from the gay justice warrior and the cops that had to break them up. And finally, Ian speaks. 

"Now, Jackson, now we go and tend to the wounded." 

Ian makes a b-line for GJW, never taking his eyes off of him as the guy looks around after he's been uncuffed. He starts to stagger up the street, but Ian gives a little jog to catch up to him. 

"Hey! Bloody guy! Wait a sec!" 

The guy stops and turns around in a daze, looking to and fro before his eyes finally settle on Ian. 

"Hey, man," Ian breathes when he catches up to him. "Why don't you let me take a look at that?" He asks and gestures vaguely to his own face. 

"No. I'm fine. Going home now." The guy turns again, but there's no way in hell Ian's going to let him get away. 

"Hey, woah, woah. Take a breath. I'll be quick. Get you cleaned up and on your way. Just let me look." 

The guy looks tired. Exhausted. Broken down and over it, and maybe that's what makes him relent with a sigh, and stumble over to Ian. 

"Let's get you to my truck, alright? You can take a seat? Rest for a minute?" 

"Sure. Whatever." 

Ian steps past his partner and quickly tells him to go inside the bar and make sure everyone else is okay. It's not exactly protocol to split up. In fact, it's frowned upon, but Ian's gotta talk to this guy. Tell him that he admires him or, or something. But he needs this dumbass away from him while he does it. 

"Alright. You think you can climb up here?" 

The guy nods, and though shaky, he manages the few steps up and sits down on the cot in a slump. 

"Look into my light, alright? Follow it with your eyes only."

Mickey does, pupils shrinking down appropriately. Ian maybe does it a little longer than is strictly necessary, a little lost in the bright blue that emerges from the dark bruising and deep crimson that's smattered around his cheekbones. 

"Forgot to mention, my name's Ian. I'm a paramedic. Can you tell me your name?" 

"Mickey," the guy mumbles and looks down to his hands. 

"Okay, Mickey. Can you tell me the date? Who's the president?" 

"Jesus, I'm fine, alright? Can I go now?" 

Ian sighs and rips open a package of compress before dousing it in a saline solution. 

"As soon as I'm done, and you answer the questions. I have to make sure you're alert and oriented before I send you off on your own." 

"Fuck. It's February... sixteenth? I think. And fuck head Trump is the president." 

Ian smiles and wipes away a bit of blood and presses the compress down on a spot that still bleeding. 

"So you put on quite the show," Ian mentions off handedly, trying to find a way to weasel the whole proud gay thing into a conversation. 

Mickey's eyes snap up to meet Ian's, hard and unsure. His jaw clenched also, and Ian presses harder against his cut so that it doesn't reopen. 

"Yeah? Your point?"

"No point. Just happy for you. I felt a lot better when I came out. Makes me feel... I dunno, free, I guess. You know?" 

Mickey softens at Ian's admission, though not by much. He just deflates a little. Lets the air out of his chest and unclenches his jaw. 

"Yeah, well it don't mean I'm gonna be wearing a dress or some shit now." 

Ian laughs as he pulls the compress away and tosses it, taking his gloves off and throwing them away as well. 

"You sure? You look like you've got some nice legs," he tells Mickey with a grin as he looks him up and down. 

Mickey laughs, too, quiet and a little shy. "You're a fuckin’ dick."

“Yeah, probably.” 

There’s a lull after that, with quiet, soft smiles. Little bashful looks and uncomfortable shifting. Ian’s just about to say something else, probably stupid because he hasn’t fully thought it through, when his partner comes back. 

“He going to the hospital?” Jackson asks Ian, like Mickey isn’t sitting right there. 

“No,” Mickey answers on his own behalf and stands up to go. It takes him a moment, but he gets out of the rig with a lot more grace than he’d started with, and Ian couldn’t articulate the relief if he’d tried. 

“Hey,” he says when Mickey starts to go. “You might have a concussion. Don’t go to sleep for a while alright?” 

“Yeah, man. Sure. Fuck ever,” Mickey says and digs in his pocket for a smoke. 

“And maybe I should give you my number. You know, just in case anything pops up and you have questions.” 

Mickey lights his cigarette and blows the smoke out of his nose. He’s got that same cute little grin that he’d had earlier, and damn, he’s fucking adorable. Even with the busted up face. 

“Yeah, okay, doc.” 

“Not a doctor. But I’m into role play,” Ian tells him and scribbles his number down on his little notepad. 

“Dick,” Mickey reminds, but he smiles anyway. He gives Ian a parting middle finger before he goes, shoving Ian’s paper deep in his coat pocket. 

Ian watches him go for a long moment, checks out the back as much as he’d checked out the front, hoping to god Mickey uses his number. 

“So, boss. It protocol to hit on our patients?” Jackson asks with heavy sarcasm. 

“Only the hot ones.” 

Mickey uses the number the next day, and tells Ian to bring his stethoscope.


End file.
